


Fic:  Those Who Hunt The Wounded Down

by levitatethis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-15
Updated: 2008-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel's mission proves difficult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic:  Those Who Hunt The Wounded Down

**I**

He is shadowed light and darkness falling, there but for the grace of God.

Unwavering from the course set forth millennia ago he is mindful of the bodies of his comrades that litter the concrete battlefield. A bloodless wasteland, the stench of rank decay, of cutting it close and wearing wounds of the mind, fills his essence and he reconfigures it, transforms it into persuasive motivation.

Is it a reckless decision? Are the consequences already etched in stone? Should he have let go the moment they grasped hands?

A long day’s journey into night, but he did what needed to be done. And all he faces for his trouble is grief. Long is the way and hard—but that is for the other side to determine.

He waits.

Watches.

Sees into the unwelcoming recesses of tightly wound minds.

The time draws near.

 

**  
II**

The body he took over belongs to that of a civil servant. Hardly a remarkable life, it was a necessary tactical move to inhabit a person who would not be easily missed.

Besides a life of wasted potential, Mr. Tax Accountant went through the motions punching numbers and shuffling papers. He had seen better days, mostly at the bottom of an empty bottle and Castiel wonders if the man, once (_if_) returned to his body, would appreciate the sobering process that occurred while he was elsewhere. Most likely not—humans are rarely likely that. He will probably have a drink to celebrate his return.

Walking in the trappings of flesh and bone is an odd sensation of being encased in something that does not quite fit and Castiel is thankful for the invisibility the man manages to convey quite naturally in his disheveled state.

It makes the job much easier.

 

**  
III**

He is everywhere at once and although each visit induces a startled intake of breath from Dean, Castiel is not bothered to be more polite. Armageddon is justification enough to forgo manners. Besides Dean responds best to their rough around the edges dealings.

Truth be told Castiel’s most charged moments are the minutes he watches Dean uninterrupted before his presence is made known. At first he was content enough to analyze the mere physical presence of the man: the worry lines that creased his forehead, his lips pulled into a tight line, eyes that looked like they could spit fire and a walk that screamed pretend indifference to the rules of man—but what of the higher laws?

It was the way he looked at Sam, however, that Castiel took as a personal invitation into Dean’s mind. Such protective concern (which is still a problem since Sam is the elusive mark) and he delved inside. What he saw—he had to fix that too.

Dean is proving to have demons all his own.

 

**  
IV **

Castiel stands at the foot of the bed, cold from not being used, while Dean sits on the side of the other single bed.

“Do you believe him?” Castiel says, shifting only his eyes to Dean’s form.

“Sam’s not like me,” Dean grumbles lowly, his defense of his brother running opposite to the hurt in his eyes. “He’s the boy scout—you know, save a life, see the good, all that ‘be all you can be’ crap.”

“Is that why he’s with the demon and not here?”

Dean jumps to his feet, glaring, and crosses the small distance to Castiel, stating, “He went through hell—,”

“While _you_ were there.”

Castiel watches Dean snap his mouth shut and look down at the cold bed, letting out a frustrated sigh.

Staying focused on him, Castiel says, “There are no more warnings. Excuses are no longer acceptable. I brought you back for a reason and it’s time you return the favour.”

 

**V**

Maybe choosing Dean was a mistake. It made sense—to get to Sam—but maybe he is too close. Two steps forward and one step back, Castiel observes Dean’s confliction between wanting to do what needs to be done and looking for excuses not to follow through.

He wishes he could speak to Dean with his real voice, but bursting Dean’s eardrums will hardly work in his favour. ‘Angelic voices’ on religious television programming give him a complex with their overdose of saccharine sweetness. Real angels are warriors—fighters who boom and lay claim to the path of righteousness; and not the righteousness that earthbound humans subscribe to.

If the truth were known he thinks there is a high probability that the religious right would demand and insist on laws ensuring the illegality of the rights of angels to exist.

Humans are a strange lot. When presented with the unadorned truth they much prefer a tempting lie.

 

**  
VI**

Sam’s been gone for two days and Castiel can only get a vaguely hazy feel on where he is due to demon tampering. Dean wants to raise fire and brimstone and Castiel fights the urge to ask him where that fighting spirit was when Sam was still in his grasp.

He looks at Dean’s knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel and the slight swerve of the car within the lane tells him that Dean is look at him—to him for answers. Six feet under and nowhere to go is as good a place as any to finally see the light.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” Castiel says in an ordered tone.

“Tell me what the hell needs to be done,” Dean angrily says, slamming the steering wheel with his left hand.

Castiel turns to look at him. “I already tried that but you chose to be deaf, dumb and blind. We’ve had to take matters into our own hands.”

“So that’s it?” Dean glares at him then back to the road. “I’m out and Sam’s dead?”

Castiel contemplates the angry man before answering, “You questioning me is what got you into this mess. We don’t answer to you.”

 

**VII **

“Sammy?”

He listens to Dean call out for his missing brother, the one tempted from the path by grief, vengeance and sex. It’s all so…_human_.

The Mighty. The Fallen. The Chosen, and it does not matter which side it is picking the teams, the results are the same. If it were not all such a run-up for the end of days this type of dependency would be comforting.

As it is Castiel is embittered by the reminder that the balance of the world rests in the hands of a race that is easily swayed.

Lucifer knows all the blind spots.

 

**  
VIII**

_“He can’t be trusted.” _

_“Are we sure he’s ready?” _

_“We’re to follow…_him?”

_“Resistant. Defiant. How many did we have to lose while he played for more time?”_

_“He’s distracted.” _

_“Wouldn’t you be?” _

_“He has more on the line than you give him credit for. He’ll fight.”_

_“But will it do any good? There were better choices.”_

_“He’s the right one.”_

_“But will he—,” _

_“He’s the right one.” _

 

**IX **

He can feel them all around, pressing in. Brother versus brother, angel versus angel. Demon. To recognize the enemy is to see ones self.

The convergent point is a seismic shift. Castiel hopes (believes) that this road has been paved with a precision of divinity that will render his decision as ordained. Pride might goeth before the fall but in the depths of desperation it is the last tethered scrap to cling to.

Pride is what pushed him outside of the fighting conspiratorial circle to yank Dean free of a living Hell, to no longer be the food and play toy of never sated Hellhounds and unrestrained demons. He knew Dean was the line between worlds—a dead man walking, unafraid and reckless, but in need of ordered guidance. A dead man walking whose brother is meant to carry forth one of the greatest counter attacks in history on behalf of God’s once most revered right hand angel—the greatest of the Fallen.

The world exists on the head of a pin.

Round and round and they all fall down.

 

**X **

The end is neither swift nor painless.

It is blood red and midnight black and a white light so blinding it burns sight into oblivion. It is deafening silence and cluttered voices that speak the scripture of gibberish. They are the void.

Screams that will torment until time ceases to exist call Castiel as a prayer to arms. He zones in on Dean’s, the one voice that cracks through his figurative skull, and follows the breadcrumb path into the assail of the battle front from which there is no return.

So close.

Burned flesh rots what is left of breathable air. Joints are realigned in the construction of monstrosities that wretchedly walk amongst them, perceivable from the corner of the eye, never to be looked upon directly.

So close.

In the chaotic madness Dean is shouting for Sam—still trying despite knowing it is of no use (after all if you are going to sleep with demons you are going to be tattooed with the mark of the beast). Hands grasp, claw, and scratch. Castiel’s head is throbbing from the fatigue of discontent, malcontent, and the world afire (yet it does feel like home).

One last time Dean calls out.

Sam turns.

Yellow eyes.

Castiel halts then rushes forth.

The world blinks and all is black.   
 


End file.
